


i wish i were a ghost

by magpie (mccrackalacken)



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - High School, Boarding School, M/M, Multi, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mccrackalacken/pseuds/magpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Nothing like hitting on cute boys when you're half dead.”</p><p>John's not sure if there's a difference between feeling dead and actually being so. The unholy matrimony of a boarding school AU and a ghost story.<br/>John Watson begins attending Rückschlag Sixth Form as a member of the Lower Sixth, and everything seems very textbook until he finds a young boy living in the woods, who may or may not be a bit a bit dead. It doesn't help when your roommate seems to be a psychopath, too.</p><p>This is just... for fun. Don't expect this to be some grand novel. It's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Is this a joke?” Was the first thing John asked, eyes set on the oak dining table.  
John had barely arrived home from school, scarf still tucked into the lapels of his blazer, hair windswept and riddled with leaves. He simply stood there, a freeze-frame of a stride, blinking. “This has got to be a joke.”  
Harry shrugged, mug held to her face as if in an effort to warm it. “Huh,” she started. “I guess not, I didn't do it.”

In the middle of the table, barely protruding from the pile of letters, was a manilla envelope. There were many other manilla envelopes alongside it, sure – late bills and repossession notices and other junk – but this one was different. It was a lot thicker, and almost immaculate – stiffened with cardboard and bubble wrap. “Open it,” Harry urged, and John could tell she was smirking behind her mug. “It might just be what you're hoping for.”  
“Oh my God,” John said, grabbing for it with needy hands.

It wasn't every day that anything really happened in the Watson family. In-between family game night and John's rugby matches, they lived a life of monotony, of soul-draining 9 to 5 jobs and schoolwork. Harry had barely graduated last year, getting past her GCSEs with a solid set of Cs and Bs, but still she hadn't managed to find a job – she'd tried, she'd really tried, but it just hadn't worked out. Harry, in all honesty, is how John had ended up in this situation. She'd convinced him, months ago, to sign up for a scholarship at the prestigious Rückschlag boarding school. It was down South, five minutes walk from the coast, ten to the nearest village (or so the advertisements say). They had the best A-Level results in the area, and – yeah, that'd just about been all the confirmation John had needed. It'd taken months of exams, telephone interviews and portfolios before John had been even _considered_ , let alone given a scholarship. But hell – look where he'd ended up; stood, one cold February evening, with an envelope of forms and maps and uniform lists. “Oh my God,” he repeated. 

Harry smiled at him again, leant back in her seat. “Open it, come on.”  
And John did. 

Papers came spilling out over the table, all a stark white, school crest adorning the letterhead. There were so many – forms for uniform, travel vouchers, acceptance forms... bills.  
They were the first thing John went for, placed in a – pretty bulky – envelope of their own. He wasn't hesitant to open it, and upon doing so, he was greeted with exactly what he needed first. “Scholarship details,” he read aloud, eyes scanning the page. “Forty percent.” He grinned at Harry, face almost splitting with glee. “Thirty percent bursary.”  
“You're going away,” Harry laughed, a gleam in her eyes. “Good luck, lil' bro.”  
“Jesus, you sound like a yank, don't say that. Be happy for me.”  
“I am happy for you,” Harry grinned. “I'll be calling Mum when she's back from work – have a drink or two together, right?”  
“Good,” John smiled. “Now leave me alone to read!”

– 

Come September, John had packed, re-packed, re-re-packed, and prepared for his first year at Rückschlag Sixth Form just about as well as he could. His case sat under his bed, filled to the brim with photos, uniform and textbooks, a name tag clipped to the handle and a goodbye note taped to the back. He could feel it dig through his mattress every night as he tossed and turned, the slats long broken, a constant reminder of what was to come when August 30th arrived.  
He was scared.

Goodbyes weren't as hard as he'd imagined them. The lads at school had thrown him a party, filled with watered down beer and crappy VHS tapes. His family had had a celebratory dinner. Harry cried. It wasn't hard to climb aboard his train, ticket in hand and satchel over shoulder, wave to his parents through the window. It was about as natural as it could have been. 

–

 

John had genuinely expected something more military – more old fashioned, more like the books.

His coach load of students pulled up at the school with a screech. He noticed, almost instantly, that he was probably one of a handful of new students. No-one especially stopped to greet him, not before he was in the house, case heavy in his hands and heart fluttering excitedly against his ribcage. The décor was... dark. Everything was a muddy, rich brown, unpolished and dull. 'You only live once – make the most of it!' adorned a hanging plaque above the piano set into the corner. John grimaced, spinning around on the spot as he was left, alone, the other students already bounding up the staircase. There was a common room to his left, just past a set of sad looking leather sofas. Everything about the place looked sad, from the lifeless trees outside to the vase of fading hydrangeas.  
He turned on the spot before he noticed a middle-aged woman stood at the other end of the reception, posture relaxed. “Gosh,” he'd said as she approached him - his house matron he presumed – taking his bags from his hands, rushing ahead of him for the stairs.  
“Not to dawdle,” she smiled, as John hurried along behind her. He was shocked – surprised at how forward she was, no formal introduction, straight to business. He hoped this was not how the rest of the experience would be.  
After all the heady expectation, climbing sets of heavy oak staircases hurriedly, finding his room was almost a letdown. The Matron – Mrs Smith, she'd introduced herself about half-way up the third floor – set John's bag against the radiator outside, before stepping back, straightening her floral skirt with bony hands. “Now,” she soothed. “There's a payphone at the other end of the hall to phone your parents, if needs be. You can get started unpacking, your roommate will be here shortly, I'm assured – he's being dropped off personally by his guardian, I presume.”  
“Thank you,” John smiled, holding out his hand to the woman, shaking it firmly.  
“I'll call your room when your roommate arrives; he'll guide you around. I hope you have a good evening,” Mrs Smith smiled, turning to leave him.  
“Thank you,” John remembered to say, so softly he was unsure the matron even heard. 

The dorm surprised John; he'd imagined rich oak interior like he'd found downstairs, tiled flooring, grand beds. But what he found was so unalike it was almost a polar opposite. The walls were shrouded in pinboards, painted unevenly with the same cream paint that covered the flaking cinderblock walls. Beneath them, two beds of unfinished wood lay against opposite walls, uncovered and bare, with two practically pint-sized sets of drawers at the end of each. John shuffled towards the one on the left, relaxing, if not for just a moment, gazing across his room. He wasn't sure if he was in awe, or simply drinking in his surroundings – his mind was confused, excited. This was to be his home for the next couple of months, all the way up to the Christmas holidays in December. Classes would pre-occupy his mind, with barely any breaks between terms, and he was more or less left here to pursue a life of his own. There wasn't much he could do, however. Separation seemed to be due - he'd been at home for 16 years already, for Christ's sake.

John's uniform included a stipend for uniforms. Half of his suitcase was full of pressed grey trousers with matching white button-up shirts, striped school ties, polished Italian shoes. He unpacked it all slowly, making sure it was folded neatly, placing it into his drawers. There wasn't much space to fill, however, and he ended up piling the top of it with his shoes and casual clothing. It made him look muddled – messy, almost, and he was unsure if his roommate would be okay with it – he was, after all, a 'commoner' attending a prestigious private school. He wasn't nervous – no, quite the contrary, John was a natural charmer, a people person, of course his roommate would be okay at least sharing a sleeping space. At least, he hoped.  
Out the back window was a large expanse of grass, reaching as far as John could see before it slowly tapered into a modest woodland, casting looming shadows over the field. John could only just see the setting sun above it, the sky a pale white-blue. John almost smiled – it was this sort of thing, a tiny thing like this, that reminded you you weren't as far from home as it seemed. The sun still set wherever you were, the forests never really ended.

It was then that there was a loud bang. John jumped so far he was sure he should have toppled from the bed, and it was seconds before a lank, short man had appeared in front of him, hood up and coat far too large for his frame. He was a round-faced, grubby boy still softened by the fat he must have retained since childhood. Dark strands of hair fell onto his high forehead as if he had been simply lazy, too care-free to care. “Um,” John said.  
“I'm Jim,” the boy said. “Hi,” he hastily tacked on as if an afterthought.  
“My name's John,” he extended a hand out to Jim, who took it, shaking his hand with some sort of finality, a breeze that made John uneasy as he nodded. “Right.”  
“I see you've taken a bed,” the boy said, moving to other, a woman almost trailing at his feet. She looked nothing like him – she was small in all senses of the word, with a mousy face and a head of curly hair. Spanish, John deduced. “I'll take the other.”  
The woman begun unpacking for him, moving on her own accord, as if automatic – she wasn't staff, oh no, John could see that. His guardian, he thought; but he was pretty sure they didn't grovel at their kids feet – this kid must be influential, or be paying her. It almost made John wary.  
Jim shuffled off his woollen coat, hanging it on a peg fastened to the wall, shaking his head, running his short fingers through his hair. “Long journey?”  
“Aldershot,” John nodded, moving to stand, to try and shove whatever he could into his drawers. Jim stayed with his back to him, surveying the wall, picking at a pinboard, the paint coming apart at his fingertips. “Long journey – took me the full day. Was a little stuffy. And you? Ireland?”  
“Don't jump to conclusions, Johnny.”  
“Oh.”  
“You're not far off, though, not at all. Northern Ireland. They're different places. I do hope you don't confuse them again.”  
John shrugged, uneasy on how to proceed. “I'll try. Are you going to show me around later? The matron said she'd buzz me when you arrived but, uh, I guess not.”  
“She's absentminded, don't hold her to what she says. But yes, I'll give you a tour of the grounds once we eat. You'll have to wait, I'm afraid.” Jim smiled for the first time – it didn't even look forced, a small grin that creased his cheeks, his teeth far too white compared to his grubby face. It was as if someone had smeared foundation, far too dark for his face, around the whole bottom half of his face, not even bothering to even it out. He wasn't tan on any account, no, but it was unfortunate if his face wasn't just muddy. “John,” he said again, as if trying to keep the room to attention. “You'll have to change into your uniform for dinner, even though term doesn't start for a few days. It's a formality thing, I don't know, it's stupid. My guardian and I shall leave you to do so – I hope you'll do the same for me.”  
And that was all. The small woman gave John a shy smile as Jim led her out. His bag was empty, John noticed, all of his belongings already packed neatly away, textbooks stacked on the small bookshelf indented into the wall above his bed. John hoped he could simply leave his books on the desk and Jim wouldn't mind.  
He changed quickly. He'd done this plenty of times at home before, trying the uniform for size the fiftieth time, hoping he hadn't grown, despite knowing he was well overdue for a growth spurt that never came. The tie was striped, green and grey, and as he straightened it, the school crest came into view just below the knot. John grinned at his reflection in the window – he was officially a member of Rückschlag school. He was going to study and become a doctor and it was all going to be okay, be fine.  
He shrugged the blazer onto his shoulders, flattening the lapels, before he opened the door for Jim. Jim smiled at him, leant on the radiator beside the door. “The woman left,” he said simply, stepping into the room. “Go on, get out,” he laughed, pushing a stubborn John out of the way, the door slamming behind him. 

The corridors were devoid of students, it seemed, as John rested against the wall, the radiator burning at his knees. It was as if everyone had fell silent – apart from footsteps on the floor above, John could hear nothing but water bubbling through the overhead waterpipes. It was eerie in all senses of the word, and he jumped, once again, when Jim opened the door, humming.  
“Come on in, we're discussing the rules.”  
“Rules?”

The sun was setting truly when they both re-entered the room. Jim's uniform was obviously newly pressed, the blazer seemingly tailored to fit his skinny physique. John's blazer on the other hand was loose, loose as it was when he got it in the mail, fitting perfectly at the shoulders and nowhere else. They stared at each other from opposite beds, sat poised and straight. Jim was biting at his nails.  
“Okay, being my roommate, the only time we'll change together is in the morning. But that's a minor detail – I think it's safe to say you don't touch my things, and I don't touch yours. We don't have to hang out, at all, unless you want to ever.”  
“I'm fine, if you want to go around campus together. It's not like I know anyone else, anyway. You're – you're okay. It's bollocks if you want me to keep away from you, too. ”  
“I'm glad you think so,” Jim said. It was a moment later that the fire alarm sounded, a short 5-second burst-  
“Dinner,” Jim said, and smiled, once again.


	2. Chapter 2

John's first dining experience at Rückschlag was all but eventful. He'd eaten like he'd eaten lunches back home, the refectory buzzing with students. He and Jim had sat with Jim's friend – and as it seemed by the lack of friendly introductions, his only friend – and ate hastily, the moon high in the sky outside.

“I mean,” the tall man sat opposite John started. “It's not like I didn't miss this place. Sure, we all complain constantly, but it's like, I'm stuck home with an alcoholic slob of a father making me jog the whole village every morning. So, yeah, I missed this place.”  
“I bet it's nice to be out of the countryside, too,” Jim smiled. “Sheep and corn for company? I'm sure you enjoy it.”  
“Shooting, Jim,” the man said monotonously. “I shoot foxes, you know that.”  
“Sebastian, I don't think you should be talking about your murderous exploits with John here, should you?”  
The boy – Sebastian – turned to John for the first time, as if he'd neglected to notice he was there. “Good evening, John.”  
“Uh, good evening, Sebastian.”  
John looked up from his plate properly for the first time to see a gaunt boy – or would the better description be man? – with a face so set he might as well have been carved out of stone. He looked at John down a long, pointed nose and smiled.  
John instantly felt unease; Sebastian wasn't out to get him, no, John could tell that. But he was predatory, sporting a thick Russian accent and a short military hairstyle, watching him with eyes as hollow as his tone.  
“You're enjoying your first night at the school, no? Did your summer go as planned?”  
“Same old,” John smiled. “I'll be sad to see the winter.”  
“Won't we all be,” Jim smiled at him over the table, just as a boy on the table behind him hit his head with his tray as he stood, barking out a laugh.  
“Oops,” he smirked down as the remainder of his group stood, chair legs scraping across the floor. Jim brought a hand to the back of his head, patted it a few times, and then looked opposite the table, just above John's shoulder, a blank look on his face.  
“Sorry for Jim,” Seb said, voice picking up an octave. “I'm sure he's sorry for being in your way.”  
Sebastian put down his cutlery and turned to the boys, smirking.  
“Fuck you, you bunch of faggots.”  
“You need to learn your manners,” Seb smiled, turning back to his food. “You know I keep my equipment in my blazer, now, so I would just leave Jim alone.”  
John wondered what exactly he meant by 'equipment', but he hoped he wouldn't need to find out – the boys began to immediately turn, trays in hand, shuffling down the isles. “Fuck that,” Sebastian mumbled, as Jim began to blink, quickly as if to stop himself crying. It would almost be embarrassing if he did – hell, he was in John's year. He must have been 16, and judging by the introduction, he'd been here before the sixth form.  
“Calm down, Jim,” Sebastian said as John remained silent, still eating, only managing small glances as Jim went back to his food, the blonde beside him tapping his blazer pocket. Jim visibly relaxed, a string of whispered curses spouting from his lips, a disgruntled look on his face.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, John surveying Sebastian with an almost shyness. He should have stood up for Jim – it's what he'd done every other time, never stepping down to let someone get hurt. John was, in almost all senses of the word, a good guy. He ate 1am sandwiches and fiddled with the phone chord and swore only on occasion. He was – common. Nice enough.

“Jim, are we going down the forest tonight? Mama mailed me some of her drinks,” Sebastian asked, eyebrow seemingly perpetually raised or furrowed. It was as if he were running on standby, sluggish and indifferent, but John was sure he would blow up if someone were to really annoy him. “You can come too, if you'd like,” he added, as if an afterthought. John wondered if he really wanted John to be around. He was sure he'd be abandoned soon enough, find his own friends, however.  
“Yeah,” Jim said in his thick Irish accent. “We'll go.”  
Looks like John didn't even have a decision, then. “Great.”

~*~*~*~

Jim had pushed John out of the window as if he were a sacrifice, hands strong on the small of his back, unrelenting as John kicked out, two floors of thin air below him. He gulped, reaching for the drainpipe, barely taking hold before Jim let him go, and John was almost falling, feet scraping the wall, kicking, trying to get a decent grip, rubble from the age-old bricks crumbling below the soles of his baseball shoes. “Jesus Christ!”  
“Quieten down!” Jim commanded from above him. His head was stuck out of the window, hood pulled low over his forehead. “If we get caught, we shall blame it all on you.”  
John grunted, finally taking hold. “Very good.”  
Jim began to lever himself out of the window immediately, scaling the bricks as if he'd done it several times before, as John slowly inched his way down the pipes. Jim was almost threatening. For such a quiet kid, he sure did have a few tricks up his sleeve – Sebastian was a total shock. He didn't seem like the kind of guy to hang out with anyone but the school bullies – unless that's what he and Jim were.  
'Bullies' was such a childish word to use.

The forest was darker than John had expected. It had barely gone ten – the boarding house was looming behind them, lights still on in almost every room, curtains open. John could see people moving around, pinning up posters and sorting rooms. It was almost as if they were setting up a new flat, just with half the possessions they really needed and a free maid. 

There was the faint impression of a path wound through the grass bordering the forest. Jim led John slowly, wordlessly, head poised and straight.  
The grass rustled as they broke into a clearing. It was seemingly empty spare the smell of stale smoke.  
“Seb's left for a minute,” Jim explained, confidently. “He's left his cigarettes.”  
Jim walked to a pair of logs, laying adjacent to eachother on the soft summer soil. John sat down in silence as Jim began rambling, rambling something about it being obscenely warm for this time of year. He seemed to be hunting for something before he let out a happy giggle, turning to John with a smile on his face. “Found them.”  
Jim held up a crumpled box of cigarettes, sitting himself opposite John. He neglected to ask if he smoked, however, simply holding out the thin silver box, eyebrows raised.  
John had never smoked.  
“Will we get caught here?”  
“No,” Jim said. “People don't come down here, they're scared of ghosts.”  
“Huh,” John laughed, as Jim handed him a lit cigarette. He inhaled.  
John spluttered, head spinning, coughing and wheezing and spitting all over his shoes. He dropped the cigarette in haste, and Jim laughed, seemingly accompanied by other voices. “I've never- I've never seen something that obscene.”  
“I don't smoke much,” John gasped, rubbing the spittle from his mouth as Jim reached for the still-lit cigarette, flicking the dirt off of it and inhaling deeply. Frankly, John thought it was kind of gross.  
“Gross,” he said.  
Jim's cheeks hollowed as he drew in another lungful of nicotine, exhaling through his nose. He looked oddly threatening, for a single moment, and John frowned. But when Jim looked up, looked into the forest where a blonde mop of hair was slowly appearing, he looked as innocent and child-like as he had beforehand.  
“You have zeeee vodka?” Jim asked, and John grinned.  
“Zeeeeee? You've got the wrong country there, Jim,” John laughed against his sleeve.  
“Almost,” Seb grinned, holding up a frosted bottle. It didn't look like he'd be going easy – he took a gulp, right then, from the bottle, a sour look on his face. “Mama treats me right.”  
“As she should,” Jim smiled, hands out for the bottle. He took a mouthful himself, face contorting into a scowl.  
“I see you've been sober over the holidays, my boy.”  
“Just because you don't live with your Ma like I do.”  
John, somehow, ended up with the bottle between his hands. He sniffed at it. It smelt awfully strong.  
“Go on,” Seb said. “This is, ah, an initiation ceremony.”  
“An initiation ceremony to the group of losers,” Jim smiled, rubbing his eyes lazily. “No, shush yourself. He might not know that yet.”  
John looked confused, eyebrows furrowed, before Seb kicked at Jim's shin. “Shut up. You've talking to yourself again.”  
“Ah,” Jim said non-committally.  
John took it upon himself to take a sip himself. It wasn't like he didn't drink at home – but all he could find back then was cheap beer and whiskey.  
He spluttered.  
“We could do with a mixer,” he laughed. He tried to sound funny but it came out as anything but, a strangled garble of sounds.  
Jim laughed – not with him, at him then, and Sebastian took it upon himself to kick him once again. “Shut it, pig.”  
John felt uneasy. Sebastian seemed to stand up for Jim earlier, now he was doing nothing but throw insults. Then again, John didn't know Jim as anything _but_ Jim, not even a surname, nothing. He'd barely known him for a few hours.  
The grass around them rustled sullenly as John began to suckle on the neck of the bottle, trying to drink as much as he could without his throat burning unpleasantly, mouth parched. “I don't enjoy this.”  
“You'll have to learn,” Jim smiled. “It's the only enjoyment you'll _get_ in this place.”

~*~*~*~

Jim's guide of campus in the morning was slapdash to say the least. Hungover and unhappy, he led Jim around the grounds as if a dog on a leash, pointing out wings and blocks and halls as if they were unnecessary.  
“Breakfast starts at 6:30 and class runs from 9,” Jim mumbled as they walked past the refectory they had been in just the previous evening. They hadn't managed to get to breakfast that morning – John hadn't woken until gone ten, and Jim was still lying in bed, shirt open and snoring, still half dressed. “The sports hall, is, uh, it's got a pool. We'll have to go to the chapel next.”  
The whole chapel ordeal made John _groan,_ a long drawn-out expression of pure pain and dismay.  
“Every Wednesday and Sunday,” Jim smirked. “Most fun you'll have all week, trust me.”  
“I'll bet ten quid you're a massive liar.”  
Jim smirked up at him beneath his eyelashes, cheeks dimpling. “Oh, John.”  
John shrugged, kicking at the stone driveway beneath his feet. The school was pretty large – it carried eight hundred students, which for a boarding school in England wasn't massive, but it was definitely sizeable. The whole school was split in two by a two-car-wide driveway which wound straight from the Chapel, down past the Boy's boarding house, through the gardens and straight out to the village. It was more like a self-contained village than a school – there was an on-site uniform shop, snack shops, a pool, a gym, stables... John could see it being pretty easy to cope for the next two years. The only problem was that most of the teachers lived on campus.  
“Mrs Smith is a good matron,” Jim smiled as they made their way through the gardens. Small bushes and trees surrounded them as well as lounging students, daffodils crumpled under Year 7 newcomer's eager feet. “You don't want to get in the way of Mr Andrews, though. Fuck.”  
“Mr Andrews?”  
“He's made of pure– pure evil. He'll bust you for anything. He can smell beer from cross-campus, and he can smell cigarette smoke on you weeks later. The only place he doesn't bother you is the smoker's pit, but I'm not the type to go there.”  
John almost wondered, for a moment, what he meant by 'smoker's pit', but he abandoned the thought pretty quickly. Not like he smoked.  
“Mr Andrews will skin you alive if he catches you outside after hours, too.”  
It sounded like Mr Andrews could make your life... not worth living.  
John smiled, and nodded, and gulped, and walked a little faster. 

Classrooms were easy to find. Room number, block, teacher. Easy enough. John didn't like the amount of stairs, though; all classes were condensed into two blocks: the new block, and the old block. The new block was, obviously, new. A plaque on the wall just inside the door held the original key to the building, a paragraph on the building written in blurred cursive, and a photo of the grounds that were there before it. It all seemed pretty boring to John, and it was strange that anything built in 1850 could be regarded as 'new', but he took it in stride.  
The whole 'new' building was a bit of a maze, however – sprawling over a large portion of campus, it only held the library, a lecture hall, a few history rooms and god knows what upstairs. John couldn't wrap his head around it, and didn't see himself needing to, seeing as his A Level options mostly limited him to the math and science blocks anyway.  
“What're your career prospects?” John had asked Jim as they walked, un-ambushed, up the library stairs.  
“Huh,” he replied. “I don't know. Some kind of business.”  
“Ah,” John countered, with a lack of anything else to say. “I'm going to go into the military, university too. Medical Cadetship. They'll fund me, then I guess I'm off to Afghanistan for 7 years.”  
“Predictable,” Jim shrugged as he held open the door for a passing gaggle of girls.  
John wondered what he meant, for perhaps a moment, before passing through the doors shoulder-first.  
“Business seems like a good plan.”  
“Ah, yes. I'm going to team up with Seb. It'll be a grand old time. Puppy tails wagging everywhere and jobs to be done. I often get bored here, you know – monotony is no good for any growing boy.”  
“I understand,” the blonde smiled. He didn't understand.  
Jim shrugged, smiling, picking at his eyebrows. Jim was wearing his goddamn woollen coat again, with an olive-green v-neck underneath. He hadn't seemed to button up his shirt underneath, simply letting it stay open - lazy. He looked like a muddled kid out of a bad film about the great war.  
“Are you going to be alright to find your way around when term starts?” Jim asked, eyebrows raised as he jogged down the polished staircase.  
“I think so,” John coughed.  
“You better be,” Jim smiled, leaving John stranded, alone in the corridor.

That went well, John thought with a scowl.


	3. Chapter 3

The second evening, Jim had left John with a quiet 'see you later', closing the door quietly behind him. It was only about seven – way past dinner, and John was absolutely sure Jim had gone on a hunt for Sebastian. 

The door closed, and John watched Jim jog across the field, the sky setting behind him.  
It was strange, in a way, how easily John had adapted. He hadn't as much as called his family, and he'd already gotten used to his less-than-satisfactory bed. He guessed he was toughening up.

He dragged his suitcase out from underneath his bed and undid the clasps, almost cutting his finger in the process as the lid sprung open. He unpacked the remainder of his books – a copy of J.D. Salinger's _The Catcher In The Rye_ , a copy of _The Whites Of Their Eyes: Close Quarter Combat_ he'd been mailed by an old American pen-pal, and a tattered paperback on home economics. It wasn't much, and it easily fit inside the top drawer of his bedside table, alongside a dynamo torch and a penknife. He didn't bring many posters.  
When he was done with his mini-renovation, the dorm looked like a mini-cineplex: _Fatal Attraction. The Untouchables. The Man With The Golden Gun. The Lost Boys. Never Say Never Again._  
Then, he began to fiddle with the superbly stubborn antique drawers of the drawers at the end of his bed, which only seemed to open when he heaved with all his might, which then only moved a few inches or came crashing out, spewing out all his neatly folded uniform and scraping his shins. By the time most of his belongings were re-sorted, he was in a horrible mood. Maybe he really did need Sebastian's vodka.  
He looked over Jim's portion of the room. It was all incredibly... bare. There was a wind-up pierrot stood proudly on his bedside cabinet, balanced one-legged on a yellow ball, arms spread with a sullen look on its face. It was sat upon a lace doilie, and he could remember Jim lying last night, propped up on one elbow as he laid on his front, winding it up with a sad look on its face. Whenever he released the key, it began to turn, slowly, to the theme of, apparently, Jim's favourite Opera, Rossini's 'La Gazza Ladra' – _The Thieving Magpie_. Jim had told him all about it, in his half-drunk stupor, about how he'd seen it once with his aunt, years ago as a child. John had never been to an opera – it didn't appeal to him, and his family were fairly... normal. They didn't go out often.  
Jim didn't seem to own much else except for a suitcase of books – John didn't want to pry – a case of cigarettes, four of the same jumper in different colours, a few collared shirts, a Sunday suit, a small set of comic books (which looked mostly untouched, anyway), and, like, a whole rack of monotone ties. For no good reason, just... a hell of a lot of ties. 

John didn't have much to do, so he lay down for a few minutes, but he couldn't sleep, it was far too early and he didn't know where Jim was. He levered himself up onto the windowsill and stared out at the grounds.  
It was entirely plausible he could go down to the common rooms and watch TV with his housemates. He'd said hello to a lot of them – introduced himself with a smile on the face, and they'd mostly been rather nice back. Some of them even lived near his village, which, for John, was pretty strange: he'd never met anyone really 'around'. It was almost puzzling how he was a polar opposite to a lot of the guys here – they were all rather poised, polite, nice guys. He was all of the above, too, sure, but he was a little... rough around the edges.  
He wondered, then, if his family missed him yet. There wasn't much they did with him. There was dinner, but otherwise he spent most of his time in his room or with friends. Still, they probably missed him to some extent. He figured he should call them tomorrow, in the wake of his first day of class.  
“Jesus,” he mumbled to himself as he saw a car approach the driveway, pulling up with a smiling blonde boy inside. There were an awful lot of late arrivals, and it kind of spooked John out, how there were barely any new students. 

After a few hurried minutes of consideration, he decided to go explore the woods; if Jim was there, at least he'd have someone to call for if he got lost. It would be a good way to spend some otherwise wasted time.  
He shrugged on his Adidas jacket, pulling the tattered sleeves low over his fists, pulling the hood low over his sandy hair. It was cold out for early September, especially as the sun was setting low and fast.

John easily found the entrance to the forest: a thin, winding impression of a path embedded into years of neglected wild grass. He kept his hands out to keep his balance, constantly slipping on the damp mulch of leaves below his feet, the grip on his baseball shoes worn away from summer days of constant rugby matches. Curses seemed to be the only language he spoke, whispering quiet 'fuck shit BOLLOCKS!' every few minutes. He figured he must have looked a state, mud all up his jeans, pristine jacket grass stained. But he was sticky from the heat, still far too awake for the setting sun, so he kept plodding along in spite of it all. 

The trees surrounding him were gnarled and decayed, the leaves shedding as fast as they'd arrived, all oranges and yellows and browns. He tangled himself in the ivy a few times, toppling face-first into the rocks. It was an all-round horrible experience. Now, it wasn't just the scenery that was horror-movie worthy: there was a soundtrack, too, of owls and howling winds and footsteps in the distance. He was sure he hadn't come this way the previous night, but there was no way to tell – forest, in John's eyes, was forest, and there wasn't much distinction between one path and another.

It wasn't long before he was hitting streams, ice-cold and soothing against his ankles as he hopped them, tumbling over and grabbing branches for support. He felt like some kind of movie hero – Tarzan, maybe. But then his imagination began to wonder – maybe Freddie Krueger would come and stab him or a hoard of zombies from _Night Of The Living Dead_ would descend on him or a vampire would come and pierce his neck or perhaps a werewolf would pounce on him from the depths of the rubble?

It doesn't take long before John stumbles, stumbles once again, and falls face-first into the stream - “Holy SHIT!”

“You're stupid,” the empty woods replies to him, and John fucking _screams_ , screams a girly scream he's sure didn't come from _his_ lungs.

“Dear god!” John shouts again as he feels two ice-cold hands grasp him by the armpits, pulling him up front-first onto the bank. The voice laughs again, and John's sure it's not Jim, or Sebastian-  
He looks up slowly, sure he's going to get stabbed, or ridiculed some more, so he keeps silent and stares up at the boy above him.

The boy doesn't look much older than him, if older at all – he's giving John this wilting stare, all obscured under locks of curly black hair, and he's looking damned, damned bored at the world and oh _gosh._ He pulls at his baby-blue scarf and then at the neck of his hooded jacket, and kneels down to take John's jacket into his hands, pull him up unceremoniously. 

'Thank you,' John wants to say, but instead what comes out is “are you stalking me?”

“Oh, no, don't be grandiose,” the boy says, examining his nails and then John. He has these grey-blue eyes that seem to glow in the setting sun, his nose scrunched and a bored look on his face. It looks as if he's never really smiled – his face is smooth, devoid of any wrinkles or marks or anything much more than a few teenage spots on his forehead. He has this kind of glow to him, pale and ethereal. “Good evening, I'm Sherlock Holmes,” he says, holding out a hand. 

John hesitates before he takes it in his own. “John Watson.”

“I see you found your way to my woods,” Sherlock sniffs, turning his back to John, who's barely keeping himself standing, chill and cold and dripping.

John decides not to question this guy's wording – he's got a threatening vibe to him, and he really doesn't want to anger some guy he's just met in the woods, who, no offence, could be some serial killer or creepy hermit. Or possibly both.  
John shivers.

“Yeah, from the school, like everyone else,”  
“Of course,” Sherlock says, turning back to him. “So, how're you finding it? New, I presume – you've ended up here.”  
John nods, his posture stiffening. “Yes.”

Sherlock doesn't answer – simply begins to walk in front of John, and John isn't sure what to do – he can't just sit there in the cold, freezing to death, and so begins to follow along the trail.  
It's a lot more defined at this point, stones placed across the edge of the mud path that seems to have been dug out, perhaps with twigs or some kind of makeshift shovel. He half-walks, half-jogs along behind Sherlock, unsure if he has a choice. He's abandoned himself, alone in the forest, and he hasn't as much heard Jim, let alone seen him.  
Sherlock doesn't seem to notice the cold – doesn't seem to notice that John might be a little chilly, you know, because he's _drenched head to toe in muddy lake water._ He keeps ambling along, walking as if he has all the time in the world, barely letting his feet touch the ground as he begins to ramble, ramble about the weather and the distance between here and the school and, oh _goodness,_ isn't John _cold_?

“Yes, I'm cold,” John strains, agitated. “Very cold, in fact – is there any chance you could lend me, I don't know, perhaps your jacket?”  
“You can't have my jacket,” Sherlock says, before he stops, doubles back, and looks John in the eye.  
It's bone-chilling, and awkward, and Sherlock is sort of intense, especially since John is someone he's only just met. John tries to look away, but Sherlock kind of – grabs his face, fingers too cold and too strong, turning John's face towards him. Okay, this is weird. 

Sherlock lets him go, then, noticing what he's doing. “Oops,” he says.  
“It's... okay,” John admits, awkward, and yeah, he totally doesn't know how to feel about this guy. He's kind of creepy – not to mention, intense – and kind of threatening too. Like, Jim-when-he's-quiet-with-Seb levels of threatening. 

“I don't get people coming to the forest often,” Sherlock admits, stopping beside some kind of age-old, half-destroyed, dilapidated brick wall. There's graffiti all over it – couples names, lyrics from musicians John's sure he's only heard his parents listening to, sketches... it's all a little surreal to John, who leans back, keeping himself on guard. “Huh,” he says.  
“It's odd,” Sherlock shrugs. “Ever since brother dearest began spreading rumours, no-one comes anymore. Shame.”  
John shrugged. “I know what siblings can be like, trust me.”  
Sherlock almost seemed to force a smile then. “I trust you do.”  
“I have no idea how I'm going to survive this place,” John laughed. He was trying to lighten the mood, and he wasn't exactly sure how Sherlock took it. He certainly didn't look happy, simply drifted towards John, leaning on the wall beside him.  
“Stay with me, in the forest, obviously. Best way to escape the goddamn _idiots _at Rückschlag, right?” Sherlock almost smiled, eyes lighting up the tiniest bit. “Trust me, I can be good company, if I really want to be.”__  
“Sure,” John grimaced, kicking his baseball shoes against the ground.  
“So, what dorm are you in?”  
“Thirty-two,” John smiled. “Good view of the forest.”  
“No-where near you,” Sherlock shrugged in reply. “I, uh, used to be in the turret? I had a study. I could see the sea.”  
“I've not gone down yet,” John replied. “What's it like?”  
“Boring,” Sherlock waved a hand in the air, and John was sure he cast trails, blinking. Oh, god, he was tired. “Blue. Clear enough. Your standard southern sea – nice, though. During some seasons you could see shoals of fish.”  
“Do you find everything boring?” John asked, to which Sherlock shrugged.  
“Got any smokes?” Sherlock asked then, turning to face John properly, almost reaching on his own accord for his pockets.  
“Stop it, Sherlock!” John said, hitting at Sherlock's hands, who drooped visibly. “Wait-” he sighed, deflating. “I'll try and get you some cigarettes tomorrow?”  
“So, you'll be coming back then?” Sherlock looked hopeful, eyebrows raised and a slight smile on his face.  
“Huh. Yeah, I'll try. Whatever.”  
“That'd be great,” Sherlock turned away once again, and John tried to look for his reflection in the puddles but couldn't find it, the wind too strong for the water to stay calm. “I mean, only if you want to-”  
“I want to,” John pressed, smiling, and Sherlock smiled, too.  
“What about – what about, class starts tomorrow, maybe I can spend lunch with you? Visit your study?”  
Sherlock hurriedly shook his head. “No, no. Here is better. You should be getting back, though – it's getting dark.”  
“You're right,” John sighed. “I'll be going.” 

__Sherlock walked him back, all the way to the edge of the woods, where he waved John goodbye. John wasn't sure he'd be back tomorrow in one piece, judging by the state of his clothes. He hoped the matron was as nice as she'd seemed._ _

__–_ _

___It wasn't until later that night, all showered with his uniform hanging from the back of the door, that John noticed how truly excited he was to see Sherlock the next day. Jim was lying on his bed, and John could still hear the low thrum of his Walkman from beneath the sheets, and John could hear him humming along, just under his breath._  
“Jim?” he asked, and he could hear the black-haired boy grunt under his breath, stick his head out from under the sheets. He looked annoyed, headphones around his neck.  
“Huh?” he asked, hair dripping in his eyes.  
“Do you know Sherlock Holmes?”  
“Nah,” Jim replied, fiddling with the wires twisting around his neck. “Heard of him, though.”  
“Weird,” John replies, and Jim shrugs.  
“Lots of weird stuff in this place,” Jim giggled.  
“It's just – he was really weird, you know? Cold. Seemed kind of creepy. I wouldn't be shocked if he skinned me alive and fed me to his dog.”  
Jim shrugged, sitting up finally, pulling up the sheets to cover his chest. “In America there are some weird things that go on. Kids go and shoot each-other because they- they get angry, or they fall out with each-other or split up. Some of the smarter kids – twelve, thirteen years old would shoot themselves in class. Bang, bang-” Jim mimed shooting himself with his right hand, wrist buckling from the forced impact. “Bang,” he said again, pointing his hand to the roof of his mouth, falling down onto the bed, giggling. “So funny. Americans are – Americans are so _bloodthirsty._ ”  
“Trigger-happy,” John agreed, uneasy.  
“It's funny, it's funny.”  
“I don't think so.”  
“Don't be a spoilsport, John,” Jim giggled. “Ah, it's bound to happen someday around here. Don't worry, you'll be a safe boy. We can protect you.”  
“Nice,” John said, just as the lights out bell sounded.  
“Okay,” Jim said. “Good luck for tomorrow.”  
“You too, I guess.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock doesn't appear for... quite a while. But he does appear! Do not fret, lol. Chapters after this get way shorter... for a while.  
> Aiming for an update a week.


End file.
